There followed a dull
crash from the interior of the inn and the next moment the
yellow-faced man, whom Desmond judged to be Rass, stepped into
the circle of light inside the window. He said something to
Strangwise with thumb jerked behind him, whereupon the latter
clapped him, as though in approval, on the shoulder, and both
hurried out together.
Puzzled though he was by the scene he had just witnessed, Desmond
did not dare to tarry longer. The roof of the outhouse was only
some ten feet from the ground, an easy drop. He let himself
noiselessly down and landing on his feet without mishap, darted
out of the yard gate. As he did so, he heard the inn door open
and Strangwise's voice cry out:
"Who's that?"
But Desmond heeded not. He dashed out upon the fen. Before he had
gone a dozen paces the fog had swallowed up inn and all. Out of
the white pall behind him he heard confused shouts as he skirted
swiftly round the house and reached the road.
Once he had gained the freedom of the highway; Desmond breathed
again. The dense fog that enveloped him, the hard road beneath
his feet, gave him a sense of security that he had missed as long
as he was in the atmosphere of that lonely, sinister place. He
struck out at a good pace for home, intent upon one thing,
namely, to send an immediate summons for help to surround the
Dyke Inn and all within it.
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